


with smiles on our faces (do it in the dark)

by growlery writes (growlery)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, ghostly existentialism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery%20writes
Summary: Monty's house has been empty for a long time. Then Miller moves in.





	with smiles on our faces (do it in the dark)

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween!! this is very silly.

Monty's home has been empty for a long time. It's his own fault, really; he's too good at his job. He sent the last lot packing in a matter of days. He's not entirely sure how many days – time is weird even when you're not an ethereal being who can pop in and out of the passing of it at will – but he had broken records. He got an _award_.

He should be proud.

It's just kind of weird, rattling around the apartment by himself, nobody to scare except the neighbour's cat that still wanders in through the window every now and then. Her name's Tracey, and the only reaction he ever gets out of her is a deeply unimpressed expression, even when he spends his energy to make himself physical enough to pet her.

The thought of having actual humans around? Yeah, Monty's excited. He'd been hoping for a small family, because families are always the most fun, but it's just one guy, moving into his first place after college. His name's Nathan Miller, but the apartment told Monty that he goes by Miller, or at least that's what the people he was with when he came to sign the papers called him. They're not moving in too, more's the pity, but one person is still better than none.

The apartment agrees. Monty's been manifest for a while; there's no way he's missing Miller's arrival. He is going to make the _best_ first impression.

He's in his old room, going over his haunting plans, when there's the sound of a van pulling up outside. Monty knows, in the way that ghosts just know things, that it's Miller.

He reappears just in front of the door – it's an old trick, the cold wash as someone walks through you, but it's a classic for a reason – and waits for it to open. Monty can just make out a head through the glass, mostly covered by a worn-looking beanie, and if Monty were any more corporeal right now, he'd be jittering.

The door opens. Miller comes through it, and Monty's first thought is that the apartment never told him that the new occupant was _pretty_.

And then Miller looks right at Monty and says, “Oh, _fuck_ no.”

Monty doesn't have time for a second thought. He blinks, stunned, and vanishes.

*

“This sucks,” Monty says. Beside him, Harper nods. “This _sucks_. How am I supposed to haunt someone who can see me?”

“It's really inconsiderate of him,” Harper agrees. She's the closest thing Monty has to a best friend. Ghosts aren't all that sociable, but Harper and Monty died around the same time and went through haunting school together, and when they’re in the dead space, they usually gravitate towards each other.

“I had all these _plans_ ,” Monty says mournfully, and Harper shifts her essence towards Monty’s essence in a way that would resemble a hug if they were embodied. “What if he tries to, like, get rid of me?”

“That won't happen,” Harper says, suddenly fierce, and Monty leans into her, soaks up the comfort she’s offering.

Monty takes his time considering his next moves. He's not in a hurry to be caught unawares again and, besides, he's still not over the fact that Miller can _see_ him. That there’s some physical image of him projected into the world that another being can interact with. It's so _weird_. Is this how the living feel all the time? He doesn't remember.

“It's okay to be scared,” says Harper.

“I'm not,” he says, which is only half a lie. Sure, he's a little concerned Miller is some kinda spook hunter who'll blast him out of the afterlife as soon as Monty dares manifest again, but Monty’s heard enough stories to guess that if that were true, it would've happened already. Since he still has some level of consciousness, he's probably fine.

Unless there's an afterafterlife, and that's what he's been blasted into? But that seems like too many layers. Also, it hurts Monty’s head to think about, so he's just going to not.

*

Monty reappears in the middle of his old room where, as he'd hoped, Miller is, lying on the bed reading a comic. Miller doesn't even jump. Monty tries not to be disappointed.

“I was wondering when you'd be back,” Miller says, sounding resigned as he sits up. Monty's not sure how long it's been for Miller, but it's enough that he's moved all of his stuff in, no stacks of unopened boxes. It looks... cosy. Settled. Monty frowns.

“Just so we're clear,” he says, “you know I'm a ghost, right?”

Miller just stares at him for a second. Finally, he says, “That didn't escape my notice, no.”

“And you know what ghosts are,” Monty continues, “and you’ve still made yourself right at home in this haunted as fuck apartment.”

Miller snorts. “I'm not scared of you, spook.”

Monty narrows his eyes, but he's won _awards_ ; he doesn't need to explain himself to this ghost-seeing, supernatural-believing jerk.

“You will be,” he says instead, smiling sweetly.

“Look,” Miller says, “I do know how this works, okay? And, spoiler alert, your whole routine isn't gonna work on me. But I get that this is your job, and you’ve got to fucking show up. So how about we make a deal?”

Monty tilts his head, curious. “What kind of deal?”

“You want to run me out of here, I want a goddamn semblance of a peaceful existence. You agree to give me that peace if I agree to leave in a year. I'll even actually run away screaming. Whatever you want.”

“You've done this before,” Monty says, and Miller looks away, something unreadable on his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “You're not my first, spook. Far from it.”

“Monty,” Monty says. When Miller raises his eyebrows, Monty shrugs. “You should call me by name if we're going to be having a deal.”

Miller's face breaks into a smile, small and tired, but still so bright. The apartment mentioned _none of this_ to Monty.

“Monty,” he says. “I'm Miller, which you probably already know. Can we get that deal started now?” He holds up the comic he was reading when Monty manifested. “I was kinda in the middle of something.”

“One year,” Monty says, raising a finger to point ominously at Miller, before he disappears.

*

“Why are you hiding in my closet,” Miller says.

Monty does jazz hands like Miller discovering his totally genius hiding place was all part of the plan. Miller rolls his eyes and starts rifling through the hangers.

“Ow,” Monty says, when Miller’s hand goes right through him. Miller ignores him, and it happens again, and Monty says, “ _Ow_.”

“You can’t feel pain,” Miller says, and Monty says, “I can feel _weird_ ,” and Miller stares him right in the eyes.

“Why are you here,” he says. “We have a deal.”

Monty shrugs. “I’m not bothering you,” he says. “Am I bothering you?”

Miller shuts the closet. Monty promptly manifests right outside of it, only to see Miller shucking off his shirt. Monty’s eyes go very wide.

“Privacy,” Miller says, and he’s still not wearing a shirt. “A state in which one is not observed by or disturbed by other people.”

He pulls on the t-shirt he grabbed out of the closet, and Monty blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m just defining the concept,” Miller says, “since it seems so alien to you.”

“I,” Monty says, and then stops, because he has no idea, _no idea_ how to explain to this living, breathing human being how fucking miserable it is to exist between existences, lost to anything physical but never able to be at peace.

“Sorry,” he says, instead. “I’ll go.”

*

Monty stays away for as long as he can, but this is his job, and he’s got to fucking show up.

“Sorry,” he says. He went for the kitchen, banking on it being the least likely place to bump into Miller, and of course he fucked up. “Just clocking in. Don’t mind me.”

Miller puts down the bowl of eggs he’s beating and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You weren’t bothering me, last time. I just-” He grimaces. “Like I said. You’re not my first, and the others were… a lot worse.”

“That sucks,” Monty offers.

“Yeah, well,” Miller says. “This is your home, and I drove you away from it, and that sucks, too.” He frowns. “Unless you’ve been hiding in my closet this whole time.”

“Below the sink, actually,” Monty says, and Miller laughs, a short huff of breath that Monty immediately wants to hear again. “What are you baking?”

“Brownies,” Miller says, and smirks. “Want some?”

“Hilarious,” Monty says, and hangs out above the oven while Miller mixes ingredients. Miller’s rolled his sleeves up, and Monty tries not to watch his muscles flex, but he hasn’t been manifest in so long, and it’s so very hard not to be drawn to the movement, raw power under living skin.

While Miller's waiting for his brownies to cook, licking the sides of the bowl clean, he says, “You ever bake here?”

“All the time,” Monty says, grinning, “but not in the kitchen, if you catch my drift.”

Miller snickers. “I was wondering why you were in such high spirits.”

“That’s _terrible_ ,” Monty says, delighted, and Miller lobs the mixing spoon through him, and Monty says, “ _Ow_ ,” but he’s grinning, and Miller is too.

Miller retrieves the spoon, checks on the oven, dusts his jeans off as he straightens up. “You remember much of your life?” he asks, trying for casual, but Monty doesn't need his ghost senses to see through it.

“Bits,” he says. “Pieces. Couldn't tell you either of my parents’ names, but I remember burning my arm the first time I tried to make something in that oven. Hurt like a motherfucker.” Miller laughs, and it draws a smile from Monty even though cheerful is the last thing he's feeling right now. “It's okay. You can ask how I died.”

“I'm not gonna ask how you died,” Miller says, rolling his eyes, and Monty feels a little like he's dissolving into the air. “Unless you wanna tell me.”

“You get that a lot,” Monty asks, “spooks wanting to have a heart to heart?”

Miller’s smile twists. “They’re not usually all that chatty,” he says. “Mostly just angry and violent.”

The oven dings, and Miller bends to get his brownies out before Monty has to think of a response to that. It feels kind of weird to be staring at Miller’s ass, suddenly, so Monty makes himself look away.

“You don’t have to leave,” Miller says. He’s set the baking tray out to cool and is twisting a kitchen towel around his hands, not looking at Monty. “You can hang out here wherever.”

“Even in your bedroom?” Monty says, waggling his eyebrows, and when Miller laughs it breaks the tension clean in half.

“Don’t fucking watch me sleep, you creep,” Miller says, and throws the towel at Monty before he leaves. It goes wide, lands on the counter, and Monty beams.


End file.
